


Stormy Weather Friends

by SandrC



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Nightmares, Not Talking About Your Feelings, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Present Tense, Swordfighting counts as therapy right?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:32:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23898304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: u up?I am now. What the fuck do you want?swords at sunrise?Do you take me for a coward?ten minutes. need a ride?I will magic my ass there like a grown adult, thank you very much.lazy tailor. c u then.
Relationships: Aelwen Abernant & Fabian Aramais Seacaster
Comments: 16
Kudos: 58





	Stormy Weather Friends

**Author's Note:**

> I started this sometime right after the fantasy high live finale but before Brennan and Lou said that Aelwyn/Fabian was a no-go. I like to think that they would have done it for a little bit, if only to have said they did, but they're better off as shitty friends who don't talk about their feelings and shittalk other people.
> 
> Aelwyn is gay, also. That too.
> 
> Do I want Aelwyn to change her class up a bit because she deserves some form of combative ability? Yes. Is bladesinger just a sexy subclass for wizard? Yes. Is this just an excuse for me to have Aelwyn suffer Telemine Lomanelda's bullshit? Oh definitely.
> 
> They have a system. If either of them texts the other at a weird nighttime hour, they go to Basrar's and swordfight until they've forgotten the nightmare or trauma they were dealing with. It's what they deserve.
> 
> Anyway, hope y'all like this. After this I will TRY and finish this Theo fic that I've been working on for a week now, then maybe something for Cheek, Teeth. Idk. My life is a hot mess rn lol.
> 
> Also, it's absolutely nuts that they fucking can't settle on a spelling but hey, AO3 tags? It's Aelwyn.

_You dream the crush the **crushing** **darkness** , smell of salt water and fish flesh and blood, metallic and burning. You dream of brilliant crimson and purple, bright and glowing, of fire and screams and twenty souls lost for hubris and you're next you're next **you're next you're next you're—**_

It's three in the morning and you're awake, chest heaving, breath labored. You can't see well, but you catch the light of your crystal saying and know the time. _Fuck._ **_Fuck._**

With your dominant hand you snag the dagger under your pillow and use the point of the sheath to drag your crystal closer so you can send out a quick message. You don't feel like moving, body still jello and boneless cephalophod tentacles, unable to support your weight _just yet_ , the fear locking muscles in place like a psionic scream and hatred and malice.

Your fingers fly across your keyboard on autopilot. You don't think about why you need to send this, just that it's getting sent.

**u up?**

Alone with your thoughts for a moment, you run your hands through sweat-slicked hair and grimace. It's greasy. You need to shower. Later though. For now, you pull the hairband off your wrist and tie your hair in a quick bun so it's not in your eye. Your crystal pings. A response.

_**I am now. What the fuck do you want?** _

**swords at sunrise?**

_**Do you take me for a coward?** _

**ten minutes. need a ride?**

_**I will magic my ass there like a grown adult, thank you very much.** _

**lazy tailor. c u then.**

_**Bring potions. I'm not carrying your unconscious body back to have Cathilda yell at me again.** _

**1 time and i cant hear the end of it**

_**She threatened me, Seacaster.** _

**1 time u baby**

_**I WILL kill you. Ten minutes.** _

**u can try ;)**

You pocket your crystal and grab Fandrangur, strapping it to your waist and slipping into your sneakers. With little word, you vault out of your bedroom window and land astride the Hangman, his engine purring and ready.

_Where to, Master?_ He growls, low, reassuring.

_Basrar’s,_ you answer mentally. Your throat doesn't work right now, cracked chords dried ropes around your ankles and you can't see but for the blood in your eye and—

_We're here._ You didn't notice. You didn't notice you were moving. Your hand shake slightly. The Hangman rumbles comforting underneath you. _Master, do you need me to remain with you?_

_No_ , you respond, lying for his sake more than yours. _I'll be fine. Stay close though. I won't be long._

_You never are, Master._

You hop off the Hangman and stride to the rear of Basrar's to find Aelwyn already there. She's wearing shorts and a loose shirt, the type she wears to bed, her short hair a scarecrow mess. She glares at you and you grin.

" _Fi_ nally," her drawl is loud and inflection performative. Her hand is on the thin elven rapier at her waist. "Thought you'd chickened out."

" _Me_?" Your response is sharp, a whip. She grimaces at the crackle of your voice, the dry catch of your throat on screams unvocalized. You do too. "You wound me."

"I _will_ ," she replies and draws her blade, at the ready. " _En garde_ , Seacaster!"

" _En garde_."

Everything dulls behind a flurry of metal and movement. It's easier to not think if you put your life on the line. If you misstep, she'll strike, and you know that Aelwyn doesn't hold back. She never did.

Strike. Lunge. Block. Parry. Strike again.

Your late-night dance continues. Blood and steel. You draw, red against her cheek. She draws, red against your chest. Back and forth for what feels like forever and no time at all. By the time you’re finished with everything, the pounding of the blood inside your ears drowns out the scraping of keratin against your forehead and the pull of suckers against your wrists. You’re _now_. You’re _here_. You can feel the cool morning air wick off the sweat and dry salt against your skin.

You both sit down and watch the sun begin to rise, though you can hear the Hangman hum impatiently in your head. _Wait_ , you command, and his silence is understanding enough. Aelwyn pulls her top off and presses it against the cut in her cheek to stem the blood, her face twisted in mild discomfort.

“I _could_ get you some water?” You offer, knowing it’s futile.

“And I’d refuse,” she answers, dryly. She presses her sweat into the wound. She still thinks she deserves it. Your eyes catch a scar that runs across her navel, to her hip, and disappears into her shorts. She catches you looking and sneers, “I believe we determined that I was _off-limits_ , Seacaster. Both _before_ our little ill-advised fling, _and_ after.”

You roll your eye and snort. “Can’t I appreciate the good work you’ve put in?”

“ _No_.”

You stifle a laugh. Fair. You sit in silence a bit as you think about anything other than catching clawing purple energy pinning you to the deck as your ego dies in your throat. You barely hear her ask you a question, so you turn to look at her. She’s been sitting on your blind side. Fucking knows you hate that.

It’s why she does it. So you have to make an effort to face her.

“ _Hm?_ ” You try to not let her see the way you have to fight to focus on her. On _now_.

She probably does anyway. It is by her grace and mercy alone that she doesn’t say anything about it out loud. “I said: what is Gilear up to? The ‘chosen one’?” Her smile is sharp and predatory.

“ _Well_ ,” that’s a question, isn’t it? “Him and mama have been renegotiating the terms of their relationship recently. _Loudly_.”

“ _Gods above!_ ” She gags.

“ _Agreed_.” Their ‘negotiations’ usually include Cathilda, not that you’re going to say that to Aelwyn. _That_ little nugget of blackmail would be too much for her to keep to herself, even ‘reformed’ as she is. “But other than that, Cathilda is making sure that food is still as high quality as ever, so we haven’t been partaking of any yoghurt-based meals as of yet.” You stop and think about how best to get her back for this. A question rises to mind. “Any issues with the travel between here and Kei Lumennura?”

She rolls her eyes so hard you think she might pass out from vertigo. “Oh _gods above_ , has your grandfather always been like that?”

“Like _what_?” You’re sure you know what she’s talking about but...it’s more fun to make her beg for it. Like managing to get a cup of coffee out of the Ball’s grasp when he’s on a bender. An achievement.

“His grasp on time is... _so bad_? I saw him a few days ago, then not two days later, when I came by, he said it had ‘ _been a year_ ’ since we last talked, and asked about my romantic endeavors!” She looks like she’s going to pull out what little hair she has left. “Are _all_ high elves that bad when they get to be in the far triple digits? Or is that just something that is _distinctly_ his problem?”

“That may _just_ be him. I don’t know any other elves that are...” you try and find the proper word for it. It’s _hard_. _He’s_...you love your grandpapa. He’s just...strange. “I think he just doesn’t...do... _time_...right...”

“Does he _always_ greet you like he’s never going to see you again or like he saw you ten seconds ago?” You nod. She groans, “I mean, for a swordsmith, he’s unparalleled, but his interpersonal skills need a touch-up!”

“Last time I saw him, he lamented that he would ‘ _only see me once more before I died_ ’, what with my short half-elven lifespan and all,” you snort, remembering the conversation you had with him. “But he is definitely one of the best swordsmiths in all of Fallinel. And a fantastic _teacher_ , it looks like.”

She buries her face in her shirt and lets out a muffled groan. “ _Don’t_ do this.”

“ _Aww_ ,” you mock, “does Aelwyn Abernant not like it when her sparring partner gets all sappy? Does Aelwyn not like it when she’s forced to experience _feelings_?!” She flips you off and you laugh, hard enough to cause your cut ribs to ache. “ _Really_ , though, I'm very glad to see you've found some kind of comfort in bladesinging. It's a noble and time-honored elven tradition and, while not as book-heavy as your original abjurative school, it's certainly more your speed."

" _Oh?_ " She peeks around her shirt at you, eyebrow arched in mild surprise. "How so?"

" _Well_ , no one can hurt you if they have a sword in their chest. They _certainly_ can't cast spells if they can't breathe around a shard of elven steel in their windpipe." It's concern masked by gentle ribbing. Genuine affection buried under layers of snark and piss and vinegar. The only way you too can properly communicate past swords and blood. Broken, but it works. Suits your personalities, sharp as they may be.

She laughs, a sharp bark of resignation. "Fair."

The two of you sit in silence still. You focus on the pain in your ribs and the blood running down your chin, tacky and thick, instead of the mental fear from before. Your breathing evens out and the adrenaline leaves as the sun crests over the horizon, painting the sky in pinks and oranges. She has a faint look of contentment on her face and it calms the storm inside of your chest.

Even after it all, saving the world twice over, you still find the most comfort in helping others. It's strange how a person can change. The two of you are the best examples of this you know. And you gravitate towards each other. Opposites attract but everything has a pull on everything else. _Something_ to do with science.

"We really _are_ better off this way, aren't we?" She asks. She's not looking for a response. It's just acknowledging the facts of the matter.

"I mean, for what it's worth, you _were_ right," you say, even though she doesn't want an answer, "it _was_ interesting and we _were_ bad for each other."

"I'm almost _always_ right."

" _Almost_ ," you tease. "Though I can count a few times you were _definitely_ wrong."

" _Oh_? Do we want to do this, Seacaster? I can go for a round two if you're so inclined." Her eyebrow is a sharp angle, a warning rattle. You've always been foolish enough to ignore danger like this.

"Kalvaxis. Penelope. The Oracle. Kalina. That one time you thought that a bob would accentuate your facial shape. The day you wore one of Kristen's shirts. Not knocking when you entered the bathroom that one time." Her shirt hits you in the face and you let out an unrestrained cackle.

" _Fuck you!_ Like you're any better!" She's not mad. It's not _meant_ to make her mad and she knows it. _Despite_ all the scars you bear, inside and out, she knows when you aim to hurt. "Unless you want me to bring back the Sexy Rat?"

"You wouldn't _dare_ ," you hiss. She sticks out her tongue and you sneer in response.

"Fucking _try me._ "

You let it drop, opting to hand her back her shirt after shaking it out to try and get some of the salt-crusted wrinkles out of it. She slips it back over her head and stands up, wincing as she works the kinks out of her back.

"Your hair looks nice like that, by the way," you mention, slipping your own shirt back over your head and slinging Fandrangur around your waist again. "The short look suits you."

"I didn't _do_ it for you," she snaps. That's Aelwyn for ' _thank you_ '.

"I'll tell Samantha she's lucky next time I see her," you opt for obtuse acknowledgement of her mannerisms instead of pushing it.

"Glad to see you're feeling better," she adds, looking over her shoulder at you. You had been making your way to the front of Basrar's to ride the Hangman back home but her words give you pause. "Three in the morning is a bitch and I'm going to have to explain myself to Adaine, but it's well worth it."

"You _do_ care," you say, honey-sweet. Saccharine and sticky. A trap. She doesn't snap back. She's conceding defeat here. You decided to give her the same courtesy. "Thank you for coming."

"What else are ex-girlfriends for?"

"Not certain," you straddle the Hangman and look over your shoulder at her, "you're the only one I've ever had. Want a ride?"

"As I said by way of text," her smile is soft, not lacking the sharpness she wears as a defense mechanism, but employing it to soften the corners of what _would_ be a sneer into something _kinder_ , "I will magic my ass there like a _grown adult_. Sleep well, if it finds you.

"Tell Fig she still owes me lunch."

"Tell her yourself, rich kid." She flips you off and is gone in a flash of bright blue and the smell of steel and sweat and gardenias.

" _Rude_ ," you mutter to yourself fondly.

_Are we ready to go, Master?_ The Hangman asks. You can feel him shift anxiously underneath you, his worry buried underneath hellfire and mechanical coldness.

_Yeah_ , you respond, putting up the kickstand and revving him, _I'm ready. Let's go home._


End file.
